A Man on a Watch List

If you wanted a chance to be alone with a decent cup of coffee your best bet was the Marine Café.



He’d tied up the boat in Westview harbour and dragged his laundry over to Nelson’s. The goofy deck hand had already run off to do what deck hands do when they’re not at sea. He’d told them they’d be in PR for a couple of days so they’d have time to take care of some business.
He didn’t want to think about business, he didn’t want to think about deck hands or anything else. He just wanted a cup of coffee and some time to himself.
He took the short walk up from the wharf to the Marine Café.

Westview. Townsite . Whatever they call it, the locals knew it as Powell River. He heard there were folks talking amalgamation soon. The town was built on three levels – kind of a metaphor of a working man’s life. Near the water was PR Pulp Mill where the town worked. Halfway up was the hospital where all the life events happened. At the top was the cemetery. Peace and quiet after a long hard life.

His eyes were drawn to the hospital where he’d spent so many unwanted hours. He stared, absorbed, and looked back down the street. He wasn’t always quiet or solitary; in fact, quite the opposite.

But that was then.
Then he was on top, owned two houses, owned two fishing boats, one that he leased out. He was making money and working hard to make more. Two great kids being looked after by a wonderful wife…. That was then.

Kids were with his sister now, up in Surrey. He’d get in to Steveston to unload in a couple of weeks so there’d be time to see them for a few days, then back on the water. Work while the season is on. Halibut, herring, salmon, it didn’t matter. What mattered was work, it was his only way back.
The kids understood, he was pretty sure of that, and they were in good hands. Still, he missed them – a lot.

He stared down at his coffee. They were in good hands, he reminded himself.

Good hands.  He studied his own hands, stained with grease and smelling of diesel. Net cuts and nicks, torn nails, hang nails, calluses and red blisters, a split between his index and middle finger where a splinter from the old gaff hook had dug in deep. He would have to repair that gaff before they sailed again.

He watched his hands as they pinched Imperial tobacco from his pouch and began rolling a smoke. He parked the rollie on his lip and squinted as he struck a match. The first puff was the good one, and he drew in deeply. Through the exhaled smoke he saw a man a few tables away, watching him, studying him.

The man nodded.



“Do I know you?”
“I doubt it,” was the response, and then added “but you’ve probably seen me before.”

Barney squinted through the smoke haze.
“Mind if I join you? I have a story to tell that you might just want to hear.”
Barney motioned him to the chair opposite. The stranger slid into the chair and dropped his fedora onto the chair beside him.

“More coffee fellas?” Asked the waitress. Barney nodded, his guest waved her away.

“Where did you say I’ve seen you before?”
“I don’t know for certain where you saw me, but I can tell you where I saw you.” He began to count off on his fingers. “Hardy, Nanaimo, Victoria, Vancouver, Here, Campbell River… We’ve been watching you for a while now. But it all really began in Rupert.”

“Rupert? Why Rupert? I don’t live in Rupert.”
“UFAWU. You joined around ‘48, same year that Commie Homer Stevens was elected as Secretary-Treasurer. Damn that guy is a troublemaker. But I know you already know that. You probably voted for him. You joined the Prince Rupert Fisherman’s Cooperative around the same time”
“So?”
“So we were watching him – and those organizations. And you. For the good of the country.”
“Who is we?”



“BCPP. I served for more than twenty years. Special Investigations. Took my retirement when the RCMP took over in ’50. Big mistake, in my opinion, to bring in Federals to do the province’s job. You need BC people to look after BC affairs. People in BC will come to regret that decision if you ask me. We need to keep track of undesirables – just in case.” He smiled, but narrowed his eyes.

“Why such a fuss over me? I’m just a fisherman.”
“Yeah, and Stevens is just a bureaucrat. Sure.” The stranger smiled, never taking his eyes off Barney.
Barney was taking some time to digest what he had just been told. This man, this “agent”, had followed him up and down the coast because he was a member of the United Fisherman’s Union? So were a lot of people. Why him?
“Why me?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask,” the stranger smiled. “Your name came up on a form.”
“A form? What kind of form?”

“A request for Citizenship. Do you remember a deckhand you had a few years ago – last name Olsen? Pretty sure it was Olsen. Norwegian fellow – no family, real loner who had moved here from Norway after the war.”

“Pretty sure we just called him ‘Oly’.”
“Yeah, you remember him. Worked for you for about 18 months. Left when he got a job working for Mac'n'Blo in Alberni.”

“Haven’t seen him since.”
“He’s still there – or was last time I checked.”

“So, what’s this form all about? How does it involve me?”
“In your Declaration for Citizenship you need to come up with names of Citizens of the Dominion of Canada who can vouch for you. This guy has nobody so he puts down his boss - you, and another deck hand he’d just met in a beer parlour in Rupert.”

“So, what about Homer Stevens?”
“Well that’s the good part and that’s where our paths begin to cross. One of the questions asks who you’d like to see become the Prime Minister of Canada.”
“And?”
“And young Oly puts down ‘Homer Stevens’, Secretary Treasurer of the UFAWU and a suspected member of the Communist Party of Canada.”

Barney stared down at his smoldering cigarette. “Oly didn’t know his ass from the Queen.” Barney paused. “He probably put Stevens’ name down because that was the only important name he knew.”

The stranger snorted. “Important.”
Barney ignored that. He liked Stevens, admired him for the work he’d done, just a fisherman from Ladner who understood working men could get fairer treatment if they stuck together. Sacrificed a lot for others. “So, because I’m on the same form, our names…”

“Your names got linked together. Exactly. I was given your file for observation and report. You weren’t the only one, but I have to tell you, the UFAWU have sure been doing a lot of rabble rousing.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it then?”
“Organizing.”
The stranger smiled again. “Maybe I put away your file too soon.”

 

“Look, all I know is that cannery workers right here in PR have more money to feed their families now, and that fishermen are getter better prices for their catch. I call that progress.”

“Sounds like you and Uncle Joe from Russia are real cozy. No surprise to find you in this hot bed of pinkos. You know you were here when those mill workers thumbed their noses at the banks and started the first Credit Union back in ‘39? Coincidence?” He stared hard now. “Communists are going to ruin this country if they get their way. Your UFAWU is doomed, by the way. The Labour Congress will never let them join – too pink even for that crooked outfit. Mark my words, I know a thing or two about the Labour Congress. You guys are out there on your own.”



Barney looked at the remains of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“I’m not telling you anything. We never talked, we never met.” He picked up his had and slid out of the chair. “You don’t even know my name.”

Barney watched as the stranger drifted to the door of the café. Stared at his back as the little bell above the door signalled his departure. He looked back down at his hands, watched his fingers move back to the tobacco pouch and expertly pinch and roll another cigarette.
His day has taken on a different hue. Had he really been watched? Observed?

The past four years went by in a blur. Had he done anything that would put him on some kind of watch list? Mostly all he had done is try to put his life back into some kind of order.
Bowe’s Hardware was just down the road. He’d stop in there and pick up a few things for the boat, maybe a new handle for that faulty gaff hook. Foodland Grocery was on Marine, too. He’d head up there and get some fresh supplies for the next trip.
If the Springs hit a good run outside Cape Mudge he wouldn’t want to put in for anything until he absolutely had to. He had heard it was going to be a good run this year. That would help things a lot. He’d keep busy.
It’s what he knew he had to do.
No matter who was watching.



http://vancouversun.com/news/local-news/canada-150/canada-150-fisherman-homer-stevens-became-fearless-fighter-for-working-british-columbians

Alberni Elementary - First Day of School

Joe(y) 's first day of school

Summer was the same as winter - except it was warmer.  School was a far off inevitability, not something to waste time thinking about.  Not when you could ride your bike, make a sling shot, play road hockey, build a fort….

Besides, how hard could grade one be?  Nobody I knew was too concerned about it, I could read just fine, and besides, my older sister had already been to school and she seemed unaffected.

On a rare summer day in late August I was stuck indoors, dad was home, and the TV was working.  Two big hat cowboys were fighting in a bar, swinging wildly to try and land a good one.

“That’s not how you punch somebody,” dad muttered.  He had my attention.  To not give dad your attention had its consequences anyway, but this was somehow different.  I sensed a truth was about to be revealed.

“You don’t swing wildly like that; you get up really close, make your fist like a hammer, and bring it down hard on the nose.  BAM.  You only need about four inches.”

I filed it away for the future.  A kid can never know when something as important as the hammer punch might come in handy.

Elementary school was a thousand miles from where we lived.  It seemed to take forever to walk to school.  But it was the end of the baby boom so the vast swarms of children funneling to the school made it pretty easy to find.

I expected to go straight to my classroom and start in on my school career.  Nobody told me there was a delay where we waited outside for the teachers to let us in.  Nobody told me about the milling around time.  I shuffled from clump to clump identifying kids I knew, seeing who was there.

Before long one clump was attracting a lot of attention.  Three older boys (“grade three’ers” whispered one of my friends) were teasing a boy (“a grade one’er”) for wearing two different coloured socks under his shorts.  An older boy came to his defense and some pushing began.
I sensed what was about to happen before it did; the defending hero took a wild swing at the grade three bully and was met with a palm to the face that effectively knocked him over.

“That’s not how you punch somebody,” I told myself, crossed the four steps to the bully, lifted up my hammer fist about four inches over the nose, and BAM.

Dad was right.  I did only need about four inches.

I didn’t expect the blood that came pouring out.

I didn’t expect the weird slow motion silence that followed.

I had no idea who was lifting me up off the ground and carrying me away.
“You sit here until the Principal comes to see you,” said a voice from above.

So I sat on a bench while school went about its business.  Kids filed into classes, doors closed and the building hummed with an excitement I could only wonder about.

Eventually a door opened and a man I had never seen before stood over me.  “Are you here to see me?” he asked.

I had never seen this man before.  Why would I want to see him now?
“No,” I answered.

The man went back into his office.  I went back to sitting.
Adults drifted past, some went into the office the man had come from.

“Did I not tell you to wait here for the Principal?” said a voice from above.

“Yes.”  Seemed like an odd question.

“Then why did you lie to me when I asked you?” asked the man from the office.

Now I knew that when I went to school I would meet my teacher.  I had no idea of the purpose or role of a "Principal".  So I was not lying.  But they didn’t see it that way.
“I dunno,” was about all I could muster.

“Then you will just sit there until I tell you to leave.”
The school continued to hum.  I continued to sit.

Eventually the “Principal” told me to come into his office and sit down.  He talked to me about hitting and fighting and being a good neighbour, or at least I assume he did.  I remember nothing about what was said.  He took me to my classroom (finally) and we arrived just as the bell rang for Recess.  My teacher told me to go back out on the playground with the rest of the kids.

Within moments of setting foot back on the playground I heard other grade three’ers asking “Are you Joey?” (Our teacher always tried to tack on the “Y” at the end of our names.  It was stupid.  And it wasn’t fair.  Dick – Dicky, Joe – Joey, but not Darren or Hannah. )  They found me pretty fast and I was pretty scared.  “Come with us Joey,” said one of them, “we like how you stuck up for our cousin.  We’re your protectors.”

I was kind of glad that I had worn long pants that day.  Nobody could see I, too, was wearing two different coloured socks.

Pancakes, Prune Plums, and Pat

“Bye Mom.  I’m going to Kenny’s to play.”
“Joe?”
I froze.
Usually the response was, “Be home for dinner,” or, “get home before the streetlights come on,” or, more frequently, “make sure you do your (insert chore here) first.”
Something in her tone made me dread the next sentence to come out of her.
“Take your brother with you.”
My heart sank.  Bill would have been fine to take with me; he could keep up with anything I did.  But he was off riding on Kristin’s oversized bike and was already up to his own activities.  Tony was around, but he could barely walk, and no way would mom want him out of the house all day.  Lloyd was in the navy, we guessed.  That meant....
“You know which one.”
Inwardly I groaned.  Pat was a moaner.  He walked slowly, he was methodical, he was always complaining about something, and he was always hungry.  Balancing what I wanted to do and having Pat along.  This was going to be tough.  But I really had no choice.
First stop in my day’s was getting to Kenny T’s place early enough to read some comics and listen to his Beatle records.  He had two: Twist and Shout featuring She Loves you, and Beatlemania. And he had a portable record player in his room, but his mom always wanted him to play the Beatle records on the hi-fi in the living room so she could sing along.  She always drowned out John on “Anna” and sang some weird harmony on “PS I Love You”.  That was okay, because she would quiet down for the rockers like “Little Child” and “It Won’t be Long” so Kenny and I could pretend we were the singers.  I guess Pat would have to be Ringo today.
But wait – he doesn’t have a bike.  It’s going to take forever to walk there.
Plus he was making it clear he didn’t want to go.  Mom was making it clear he was going.  We all knew how that was going to end, but he put up a good fight anyway, and finally, lower lip set firmly in its usual place, and in danger of sunburn, he followed me down North Morgan Crescent to my friend Kenny’s place.
By the time we got there the T’s were just getting out of bed.  Their family was not much like our family.  They were more “modern”, and both parents spoke a weird dialect. It  to me like “Hay de Bree de Bray” and until I read a poem on their kitchen wall by Robbie Burns I had no idea they were Scottish and were actually speaking to me in English.
(Would this look like English to any nine year old you know?)

“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.”

Mom said Robbie Burns and I shared the same birthday so I figured me and the T’s had a connection.
But we were in luck –
“Aye byes, wou' ye be haeing a wee bit o' breaky?” We would. Yippee!
Mrs. T eyed my brother.  “And who’s dis? Wassyer name laddie bucko?”
Pat stared.
“Pat,” I told her.
“Commin’ sit den. So Paddie boy, dy’a fancy pancakes?”
His eyebrows rose at the one word he understood.  He nodded, face full of hope that he had understood the alien.
“We’d love some pancakes, thank you Mrs T.”  I could smell sausages.  This was going to be better than I had hoped.
Mrs T cooked an entire batch of pancakes for Kenny, Pat, me and Mrs T.  We ate sausages and poured real syrup out of a bottle.  Mrs T made sure Pat had syrup over his entire first plate of pancakes, an act that made him instantly trust her for life and would prove to be a costly mistake for her.  He demolished the plate of pancakes, head down over the plate, working the edges into the syrup, forkful after forkful.
“An-aw-ther pancake den?”
Pat nodded.
“Yes, please,” I politely added on his behalf.
He polished the next one off before the plate of cooked ones could be evenly distributed to the rest of us at the table.  Mrs T smiled and it was clear she “fancied” him; she dropped another on his plate.  Pat got to work; it was gone in seconds.  More cakes on the griddle, I could see them, pretty sure Pat could, too.  Two cakes on his plate this time, he quickened his pace, soldiering on.
Kenny had left the table after his two pancakes and two links of sausage.  Into the kitchen came Mr T,  or “Da” as Kenny called him.
“Marnin’ Derlin’.  Hey there Joey-bye,” he grinned at me.  “ And hooze da little’un den?”
“That’s my brother, Pat,” I told him.  Pat never looked up from his plate.
“Das a fine name dere Paddy bye.  I was afraed we had a skimler in da house.”
“He’s et aboot eight cakes and still not funnerd!” smiled Mrs T.
“Aye – no supraise.  The mintit he’s foond is yer cookin’, love.”
Then they started smooching in the kitchen.  I suddenly felt transported to a foreign country and really wanted Pat to finish up.  I didn’t want to stay in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to leave Pat alone.  Pat kept on eating, and eating.  Mrs T made a second batch of batter to feed her husband, more sausages
(hmmm - maybe I will stay a few more minutes) and Pat continued to eat.  Mr T was funnerd (filled up), Pat continued on.  Mrs T smiled and cooked, Paddy-bye ate and ate until the end of the second batch.
Mrs T told us to get out so she could clean the kitchen.  It was time to move on.  Our work was done here.  No Beatles, but the day was getting shorter.
Kenny and I guessed there would be kids at Colin’s place around the corner.  He had a great yard; big lawn, fruit trees lining the edges, and fences to keep the ball from rolling out onto the road.  There was a wooden picnic table under the trees on the east side of the yard that gave shade, and a garden hose with a nozzle that within seconds of a twist would pour out cold water.  Great locale for the many games of soccer, scrub baseball and touch football that went on there.
Today the game was soccer.  Lots of the older kids were there so the quality of the game would be a higher level.   Oh how I wanted to play.  But what about Pat?
“Pat’s on my team,” I declared as we entered the yard.  I figured I could put him on defense, tell him to kick the ball anywhere and I could cover for him.  The guys were pretty decent and wouldn’t knock him down or anything.  I figured I could get in a good game and keep him interested, or at least placated for a good while.
I figured wrong.
Within minutes Pat began to moan that he wanted to go home now.  Home was a long walk away, and even if i hurried the game might be over by the time I was able to get back, even if I rode a bike on the return.   Besides, there was every chance that Mom hadn’t had enough of a holiday from him yet and might just send him back out with me.  No game and more Pat was a real possibility.  It was too great a risk.
“Come on, Pat,” I pleaded in my most reassuring tones,” just try playing for a while.”
Head down, eyes widening, bottom lip pushing further and further out; I’d seen it a million times.  “Here it comes,” I thought.
His wail stopped the game cold.  Every player turned to see who had been shot.
Colin summed up the situation in a flash.  He brought Pat over to the picnic table where he showed him a box of toys to play with while we went on with the game.  Brilliant.  And it worked.  For a little while.
But before long he was wandering back onto the pitch to again plead with me to take him home.  Before he could get to where I was an errant ball landed squarely on his face.  The ball bounced away and once again the game stopped – this time to wait for the wail we all knew was coming.  And it came.  Righteous three year old anger boiled up from little boy hell and exploded out of his mouth.  I was completely distraught.  Here was my little brother in my charge and I had completely failed him.
Again Colin came to the rescue, this time with a huge box of prune plums he had picked earlier.  He had Pat’s attention.  What he didn’t have was a grasp of what Pat saw in that massive box of plums.
“Here, have some plums little guy,” translated into, “Here, annihilate at least half a box of these delicious fruits,” which he promptly set about to do, stifling the occasional sob along the way.
When the game ended (usually when one of the older kids hollered “next goal wins”) I headed over to the picnic table to collect my charge.  I estimated he had eaten over a third of the crate of plums.  I offered to help Colin pick more to compensate, but I am sure he did the same mental math that I had done: (Help picking plums vs having Pat continue to eat and the likelihood of Pat remaining calm much longer); he demurred.
It seemed to take less time to walk home, my little brother’s steps lighter as we headed up Compton Avenue past Jack’s Store.  He was holding his own as we turned onto North Morgan, and might have been a step ahead of me as we crossed Bishop.
When we arrived I skimmed over the details of our day with Mom, duly reported with great detail the three goals I had scored, including one where I head faked Marino B out of position and side footed the ball in easily.  I’m not sure she heard all the details.
I told her about Pat’s ball in the face incident, carefully explaining how it wasn’t my fault.  She checked him over looking past the caked syrup on the corners of his cheeks and the plum stains on his chin.
“Are you hungry?” She asked.
“Uh-huh,” said my brother and took his place at the table.
funnerd - filled up
skimler - leech, bum, hobo.  Mr T told us to never go the path o' the skimler
mintit - something good!